Trying Again
by IronIsraeliButterfly
Summary: Gibbs and Ziva are confronted with a problem that takes all of their skills, wits, and emotions, while finding out the truth about what really matters in life. T for now, but possibly M soon


**Title: **Trying Again

**Author: **IronIsraeliButterfly

**Chapter One: **The Beginning

**A/N: **The beginning of a new multi-chap story! Read and _don't forget _to review!

Tuesday.

A day with no distinction. None of Monday's dread, Wednesday's "half-way" through the week excitement, Thursday's "almost there" enthusiasm, and Friday's TGIF. It is a day with no awards, no glory, no dread, nothing. Tuesday is the most prosaic day in the entire week. Hence, the most earth-shattering things happen on a Tuesday, Ziva mused.

And so, as Ziva settled into her desk, she knew that something would happen. Her finely tuned Mossad senses were tingling, as if on fire. Something was in the air. But the beginning half of the day passed uneventfully. The things were ordinary: Tony embarrassed himself several times, stabbed himself with his letter opener, and McGee spoke in a language that barely resembled English – or any other language, for that manner. Ziva and Gibbs both wielded their weapons on their respective computers, without any luck.

The call came in oh thirteen hundred hours from the Israeli Embassy to her cell phone. She wasn't usually contacted by the embassy, except when there was her passport to sort out (as former Mossad, she needed to check in with the embassy every couple of months as per American and Israeli regulations), and when her father wanted to speak to her. They spoke on a secure phone, as per Israeli security regulations. And they spoke at limited, random intervals. Any call from the embassy was odd. When she had worked for Mossad, she would have been there often, sometimes every day, checking in, updating her status with the Israelis. Israel did not trust and does not trust American security; it is coloured by a naïve perspective that America is invincible, yet no one wants to hurt them. Israel's inherent strength is that they assume that they are weaker than everyone and that everyone wants to hurt them. They put their trust in no one, they suspect everyone.

"Ziva," she answered the phone.

"Allo, Ziva. We need you at the embassy. As soon as possible."

"I work, Michael." Her tone was impatient and frustrated.

"Call me when you are on your way."

"I will do that." Ziva hung up the phone, and her Mossad senses began dancing the rumba.

Gibbs looked at her, his expression unreadable. "They need you at the Embassy?"

"Since when do you speak Hebrew?" she asked, looking at him. She was aggravated.

"No, but when you talk like that you're talking to Bashan."

"Like I'm pissed?"

"No, like you're about to castrate someone. Go."

"To the embassy?" she said, shocked.

"Ya think?" he asked.

"Oh, okay," she said, surprised, scooping her purse, and headed for the lift.

"And Ziva?"

"Yes?" she asked, turning around.

"Take care."

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Ziva stood with her legs apart as the security guard patted her down.

"Why is this necessary?" she asked, sick of the formality. "I am an Israeli national."

"And so are the terrorists born in Ramallah," a welcoming, jubilant voice resounded from the end of the hallway. Ziva looked up, a sort of delight that could only be from being reacquainted with someone that you have not seen in a long time. "And us former Mossad'niks."

"Rami!" Ziva exclaimed, giving him a large hug. "I was sure you were dead!"

"Why, Ziva? Cause I was such a bad-ass Mossad officer?"

"No, because of your love of sky-diving," Ziva retorted. "Since when are you former Mossad?"

"I was fast approaching my life expectancy, Ziva, I wanted to stay alive for a couple more years. I'm an American citizen, so I thought I could do some work here. So I joined the embassy staff. Rumor has it that you became a fed around here."

"NCIS."

"Oh, the Navy? What do you do, investigate fraud and desertion?"

"Murders."

Rami raised his eyebrows. "There aren't a hell lot of those in Israel."

"No, there are, they're just different types."

"Wasn't Officer Rivkin killed by a navy cop?"

Ziva sighed for a second and then forced the words. "My partner killed him."

Rami nodded. "Rivkin was a dangerous man, Ziva, and I don't mean in a Mossad way. He would use every method possible and they weren't always legal, and he loved violence."

"Can we talk about why I'm here?"

"Bashan just told me that you were coming. I don't know anything."

"Why did you choose Washington?" Ziva asked as they walked through a metal door.

"I'm here on temporary assignment. My real assignment is in the Consulate General in LA."

"Nice." Ziva commented as they walked through another door and turned the corner and next to another door, with Michael's name printed on it.

"What's with the heightened security? I've always been allowed to move freely here."

"Don't worry about it, we're on high security alert."

"That's not to worry about?"

"Nah," Rami said, laughing, as he knocked on the door. "Nice to see you again."

When Ziva entered Michael's office, he was sitting at his desk, his phone pressed to his ear, worry lines all over his face. "Okay, I will call you back."

"What the hell is going on?" Ziva asked. "The embassy is on high security alert and _I'm _called in the middle of the day?"

"You've never trusted me, Ziva."

"You're right. I never trusted you because the day your wife died, you went to one of the only golf courses and settled a deal on a villa in Kiryat Shemonah."

"And I should trust you even though you left Mossad, became an American citizen, and then became an American federal agent?"

"What do you want?"

"Your father sent a package for you this morning."

Ziva raised her eyebrows. "My birthday was a month ago."

"I doubt, Ziva, this is a birthday surprise."

"Well, what the hell do you want?"

"Your father wants to know if you can run a protection detail."


End file.
